White Out
by vaudevillain king
Summary: Sometimes we have to struggle to make things come together. Sometimes we just let them fall into place. [Mello x Near] Nongraphic lemon. Oneshot.


My first real attempt at Death Note fanfiction. I wrote this after reading volume 7, and went back and screwed around with it after reading volume 8. Mello x Near. Don't like it, don't read it.

**Disclaimer - Death Note in its entirety belongs to Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata. I make no monetary profit off of this. **

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**White Out  
A Death Note fanfiction  
by Ashley (blackangel617)**

"_Mine"._

…came that single word, huffed sharply and vehemently against his neck. He went utterly limp, almost doll-like, a marionette pulled by heartstrings and the growing hardness between his legs. Mello's embrace was anything but gentle- it crushed him, violent and possessive, painful and oh, he never wanted to be let go.

Near had long since been forced to stop trying to maintain his composure; Mello teased him endlessly, tugging and touching only through clothes just enough to make him whimper, make him squirm. And in darting his tongue so slowly over Near's slim and too-pale fingers, he was promising to make the silver-haired boy _scream._

The blonde hovered over him almost mockingly, a godly mess of tan skin and leather, filling Near's head with the heated scent of beer and stale chocolate and Matt's cigarettes. It was enough to make one physically ill, but he only wanted more.

But he couldn't…

"Look at me, Near."

He just couldn't…

"Look at me, damn it!"

No, no, he never could.

He could never meet those angry, dark eyes, even when fierce gloved hands picked him up and carried him to the couch, the bed, the table, or just up against a wall. Sometimes they didn't bother to hold him at all- he was simply pulled halfway to his feet and dragged to their destination.

He never could look right into those eyes and hold them, even as he peeled the gloves from those rough and unrelenting fingers with his teeth, even when they ripped his shirt in half and his pants down.

Naked fingers, calloused and coaxing, barely grazing where they shouldn't touch, and where he wanted them to go.

"Mello…"

The blonde looked at him as if he had absolutely no clue as to what this victim of his wanted. He leaned in, still touching feather-light, and his lips just barely grazed the shell of one pale ear.

"Yeah…?" Innocent and questioning, neither of which Mello had ever been.

"Could you…"

Ah, but he couldn't say it, couldn't ask.

But then those fingers stopped their moving, and he very nearly _sobbed_.

"Mello, _please_…"

More hot breath against his ear, and he very nearly _felt_ Mello smiling.

"Tell me what you want, Near."

Turning his head to find his lips brushing warily, accidentally with the other boy's, he took the wrist of that seemingly frozen hand and pushed those too-warm, twitching fingers between his legs.

Apparently, words couldn't say enough.

And suddenly he found himself forced to look, forced by the fact that he was being violated, ravaged, soiled, and he was scared in some small, selfish part of himself that Mello would stop if he didn't _see_.

Near liked to think that nothing was in those eyes now besides the usual anger, envy, spite, the usual hatred and that carnal, beastly feeling known as lust. He liked to think it was nothing but that.

_Certainly_ nothing but that.

He was altogether stretched, violated, aching for less, and aching for _more_, and all the while Mello kept up his rhythm, and Near wondered how he could manage it through the blur.

How did it go?

In.

Out.

Bite.

_Gasp._

Lick.

_Moan._

Touch.

_Kiss._

Twist.

**Fuck.**

Mello pinned Near's wrists above his head and kissed him viciously, possessively, liking to pretend that there was no love in it, nothing at all, but it was all too right for the both of them. It was like two pieces of a blank puzzle clicking into place, like chocolate melting slowly, sweetly on your tongue, just bitter enough to bite. It was like the inky black darkness of Near's hollow little room, and the fact that it always ended too quickly.

It was sort of like a reminder, Near turning over in the morning and seeing nothing but an old, familiar rosary buried in the pillow beside him.

_Still warm._

It was like waking, feeling sticky and disoriented and sore, and acknowledging the taste of beer and chocolate thick and fuzzy on his tongue.

It was all just picking up a half-eaten candy bar from where it had been so easily forgotten the night before- forgotten for the sake of a better pastime, a deeper feeling, a richer taste. It was all so simple, just biting down in the morning sunlight and tasting warmth and loneliness coiled sharply into one.

Mello, drunk and stumbling and still somehow lucid, showing up at his door in the middle of the night. Nothing new, nothing old. Nothing more than a few biting words and the shredding of a candy wrapper as a greeting; nothing more than a rough kiss that jerked him from sleeping with fingers tangled in his pallid curls as a farewell.

Nothing new.

Nothing was the same.

It was all too damnably _simple_.

Silence and endless noise. Blank white and flaming scarlet, a red like blood, or fire's darkest core.

Chocolate melted sick and sluggish on his tongue and down his throat, and it never quite met the par for the flavor of it mixed with someone else's saliva.

Puzzle pieces full of color click so easily into place.

_We fit. _

And somehow, quietly, it ached.

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I'd like you all to know that I don't really regard Near as out of character in this. I see him as somewhat fragile deep down, as someone who hides behind countless emotional walls and bites back his feelings because he succumbs to emotion too easily, and sees doing so as being weak.

Besides, we really don't see much of what he thinks of things that don't involve the Kira case. So there's really no way of knowing.

**Read and review,** **please**. Flames will be ignored utterly.

-Ashley


End file.
